An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The sixth in a series of drabbles exploring my Blood Mage!Dorian.
Trust Fall
“Careful with him-” Dorian grunted, shifting Lavellan's weight to a new pair of arms. “He's lighter than he looks- but his stature is still rather cumbersome.”
Noting his advice, the healers were cautious with their new patient, trying their best not to leave any limbs dragging. Dorian had carried him through the fort and now deposited his lifeless form at whatever passed for a surgeon's station. Hopefully their abilities surpassed the low expectation he had of this Southern, backwater hovel.
Released from his charge, he collapsed in exhaustion, back-against-wall, vaguely overhearing scraps of dialogue from within. Not even a gasp was allowed before his insides wrenched painfully, as if a small inferno struggled for escape.
Dorian jerked forward with a hiss and Desire sprung from it's host, swaying and dizzied.
“For-the love-of-!” Though he squinted in displeasure, his shadow barely offered a glance before slipping through the door- after Lavellan.
With a groan he slouched into brick, not having the stamina to protest.
Paw-pads echoed softly through the hall- Lunis' dropped into his lap a second later.
“Oof!” Sighing wearily, he pet the dog. “Yes, yes, that's a good boy...”
For a short time he sat and lamented the whole blasted affair. Not that there was anything to do for it- even if he could convince his Desire to abandon it's attraction, Thedas would be in disarray without its Herald. Then how would Dorian continue his much-favoured lifestyle of roaming, drinking and pleasuring?
Still- he was irritated. Drained of energy and lacking immediate options- Lavellan was in no shape to sustain him in any manner. If he couldn't locate a butcher for some meat or blood or some such, he'd be reduced to hunting vermin in the cellars. Not a favoured meal by any stretch.
“I SAID- NO!!” A familiar voice barked out, brimming with panic- “DO NOT TOUCH ME!- THE BLOOD MAGE! I SAID- FETCH- THE- BLOOD MAGE!!”
Jostling practically out of his robes, Dorian and Lunis swerved to face the door in tandem. It flew ajar, revealing a servant who had led them into the property, pale-faced and obviously shaken.
“L-Lord-um?” He struggled to address, a whirl of smashed glass and incoherent Dalish warring behind.
“Pavus.”
“Y-yes, ah, Lord Pavus- the Herald, he- no one can get near him! He's asking for you...”
For a second he didn't think he heard right- why would Lavellan ask for him? Just some hours prior the man had been undecided on whether or not to gut him like a 'Tevinter pig'!
Back on his feet, Dorian sprinted inside, where he was met by a trio of petrified healers, recoiling from the Herald. With radiant blade unleashed he stood in a corner, a cot toppled near him, along with a mess of fractured potions and poultices.
If the healers looked scared- Lavellan looked more-so; in his wide-eyed, snarling terror he'd chosen 'fight' over 'flight', the feral warping of his face ensuring to all that he would strike them down without hesitation.
“Herald- I'm here!” Dorian situated himself between the healers and Lavellan, arms outstretched. “You can put that down! No one's going to touch you!”
Wordlessly, that rabid gaze flit between Dorian and the servants over his shoulder. Following the motion, he understood.
One of the healers looked dreadfully familiar- though last they'd met, his features had been significantly bloodied.
Granted- in the future they'd visited, that man had likely been corrupted in some manner, enslaved by Venatori. Obviously Lavellan couldn't be expected to digest such a nuance, not with his wounds- the physical and mental- so sorely fresh.
Dorian recognised immediately that everyone in that room would have to leave.
“OUT!” He bellowed, whirling upon them. “All of you OUT!”
They hurried to obey, door slamming at their departure.
Lavellan bucked against the thrown cot, swearing in garbled Dalish as his weapon clattered, whatever adrenaline had willed his muscles to grip now absent.
“I'm going to need to take a look at your arm.” Dorian said slowly, not yet approaching. “Will you allow me, my dear Herald?”
He was briefly sized up but soon offered a nod and Dorian was permitted to close the space between them. First he righted the cot, gently guiding Lavellan to relax upon it. All the while he was stiff as tree-bark, despite yielding to hands that steadied him.
“...You know...” He decided to mention, thinking it might help. “Those men in the future- they were enthralled, influenced by the Venatori...”
“I do not care.” Lavellan answered solidly, glowering at the floor.
“...You've never been through any sort of torture before, have you?”
To this no reply was given- which said enough. It occurred to Dorian that as intimidating and firm as the Herald might appear, he'd probably lived an uneventful, idyllic life before coming into his namesake. That would fit in with what little of his upbringing he'd shared previously.
The poor fool was likely terrorised out of his wits. It was miraculous that he could speak in full sentences at all, or could come to such simplistic reasoning as 'Blood Mage saved me, therefore safe'.
A testament to how hardy he was under all that blood and matted hair, Dorian thought. Discarding such admiration for now, he honed in on the Herald's injuries. Asides from his anchor-bearing arm, he seemed only scraped and bruised- if not awfully malnourished.
“Alright, just hold still...” He cooed, unwinding bandages from the mutilated limb. “I'll try to be gentle...”
Muscles flinched but didn't recoil, Lavellan remaining in stony quiet. With the wrappings cast aside Dorian was able to properly inspect the damage; flesh terribly scarred, covered in stitches, marred by old stitches that had been removed, then replaced anew. Incisions on top of incisions on top of incisions, malformed dents and whirls creating a mess that barely resembled a shoulder-blade anymore.
It occurred to Dorian with some dismay and horror that they'd simply begun yanking out muscles and ligaments when nothing else bore fruit. It was no wonder Lavellan could hardly move his arm- it was a wonder he could at all, let alone to threaten healers with a magical blade.
“...You're actually missing pieces of your arm and shoulder, I assume you're aware?”
Lavellan merely issued a grunt.
“...Alright, well, just sit tight.”
Turning away from his patient, Dorian perused what alchemical resources had been unharmed by the minor Dalish rampage. A well-mixed regenerative potion could regrow the vacant flesh overtime, though his arm would never work as well as it used to. With some of Dorian's own abilities to manipulate the process, there would be a better chance at adequate recovery- and a speedier one, which he imagined was important.
He began picking out chemicals and mingling them together, explaining as he did;
“...I'm mixing a potion for you. It should numb most of the pain and eventually mend some damage- but I must inform you, my Herald...the destruction is severe. The best I- or anyone can do...is to prevent you from being crippled entirely...”
He noted that Lavellan's mouth twitched- the mildest of spasms. Asides from that the elf said nothing and made no eye contact, his expression a wooden mask.
With a tired exhale Dorian sat before him, potion in one hand while the other raised, curling to poise against a ring he always wore.
“Do you trust me?” He inquired meaningfully, eyes pinning to the elf's face until he found it in himself to meet Dorian's gaze.
Mutely, Lavellan nodded.
“Then trust me when I say this is for your own good, and won't benefit me in anyway.” It would, in fact, only add to his weariness, after such a long day with nothing to 'eat'.
The Herald continued to view him in expectant silence.
Tugging at a concealed hinge, Dorian pulled it apart from his ring and swiped the blade along his fingers, red instantly oozing from the slit. An old trick he'd acquired if he ever needed to utilise blood and no one else's was handy. Today, his blood in specific was precisely what he required.
Lavellan did not cease his observation but nor did he react- merely watching.
Dorian proceeded to dribble his life-force into the potion, squeezing until minor injuries clotted. He then swirled the bottle, allowing his vital liquids to assimilate with other ingredients, until the contents were dyed pinkish.
“Drink up, Herald.” He held out the end result and was a little alarmed by how it was simply removed from his hand and sipped, barely afforded a second look.
“You need to drink the whole thing.” He directed.
“It tastes metallic.” Lavellan pointed out, flat.
“Well, yes,” Dorian snorted. “That's because there's blood in it.”
Shrugging with his able shoulder, Lavellan gulped down the rest, wincing slightly at what had to be a peculiar and sharp taste.
“It should stop hurting so much soon- and you might start feeling more relaxed.”
Though his chin bobbed in acknowledgement, still the elf had nothing to add.
“Well...let's have them bring a tub in here, hrm? I'm sure you'd like to attend to your hygiene, after being stuck in a kennel for Maker-knows how long.”
Not waiting for a verbal response- there had been few thus far- he strode off to the exit and was thankful to spot that same servant, idling for any sort of command.
“Have a tub filled and brought here, will you? Just because we're in Ferelden doesn't mean he should go about smelling of dog- and have one filled for me too! Elsewhere, wherever.”
When he turned back towards the room, Lavellan was regarding him strangely.
“...Something the matter?”
“You are leaving?” The elf mumbled, the strangeness of his gaze increasing.
“Well- for a few moments...we both need a bath- and you're already caked in enough dirt for two.”
Lavellan appeared to battle with something internally, shoulders hunching, teeth gnawing a lip.
Eventually, he found his voice- as small as it was.
“I do not trust the people here.”
“I...” Dorian faltered, not predicting this. “Well, they're your people, my Herald...”
“Are they?” He mumbled sourly, withdrawing further into himself.
“...Alright, wait just a moment-” Sticking his head passed the door-frame, Dorian called. “Lunis! Where in the void did you-”
Feet scampered by, the loyal wolf almost shoving him aside in its haste to enter and pounce upon its master, who snorted with a hint of cheer, embracing the overgrown pup to his chest.
“There you go! See, Lunis will look after you.”
The creature snarled in agreement, wriggling merrily in Lavellan's grasp.
“Very well...” He said into Lunis' fur, very quietly. “...You may go.”
“Why, thank you so much for the permission!” Dorian chuckled, rolling his eyes as he departed to locate wherever his own tub was being prepared.
On his way he felt Desire glaring at him as they walked- and needn't wonder why.
“Yes, yes, I'm being terribly decent- I know you can't stand it.” He huffed, trying to dismiss his shadow. “But he's just so...pathetic right now. It's not especially attractive!”
Desire glared harder.
“I know it's attractive to you- but that's because there's something wrong with you- more than usual!”
Waving the demon off, he tried to ignore how several bystanders were oddly spectating what appeared to be signs of madness.
--
Washing up swiftly, Dorian meandered to the kitchens, searching for anything that might sustain him in the meantime- blood, bits of fresh meat, anything. He did manage to come about a few scraps and was then prepared to watch over Lavellan.
He was surprised to catch sounds of laughter on his approach- subdued as they were. Sauntering into the room he found Lavellan sitting in a tub- with the bloody dog, of course! Southerners and their bloody dogs! Dorian was beginning to regret and resent his own gift, watching as a nude Herald covered the beast in suds and cackled as it flailed about, spraying bubbles everywhere.
“...You know, the whole point of the bath was for you to smell less of dog...”
Lavellan blinked at that, Lunis panting contently alongside.
“What is wrong with the smell of dog...?”
“...You're certainly Ferelden, I'll give you that.” Eye-rolling along with his snark, he picked a towel that had been laid out with a fresh set of clothes, waving it to gain the Herald's attention. Obliging him, Lavellan clambered out and stumbled into the fabric, allowing Dorian to fold it around his wet frame.
He couldn't help but notice that even in his tumultuous state, the elf's body-heat sky-rocketed at any brief touch. Leashing himself was a trial- fairly sure that if his hand or mouth happened to slip, Lavellan would be more than receptive to the comfort.
Which was exactly the problem- he couldn't have recovered much of his sense yet. Dorian found he loathed the idea of adding more stimulation to what had to be frazzled, overworked nerves.
They should at least get one nights rest before he started thinking of anything like that...
“Here...” He said awkwardly, patting through the towel. “Do you need help getting dressed?”
“I think I can manage.” Cheeks blushed, the elf slipped passed to reach his clothes and Dorian faced the sodden wolf, submerged happily in soapy water.
“...I'm not drying you,” He pouted, still juggling his resentment. “The bath wasn't meant for you anyway!”
With a mournful howl Lunis leapt from the tub, scrambling to brush soaked fur onto Dorian's robes.
“What?! Stop that! Bad dog!!” He near-wailed, feeling truly assaulted while stumbling around the room, wolf at his heels and Lavellan snickering.
“Now we all smell of dog, so there is no reason to complain.” He quipped, voice muffled by the shirt he was wrestling onto his torso.
“Ugh!” Completely disagreeable, Dorian stormed for the other end of the room and flopped onto a mattress.
Soon Lavellan climbed onto the one opposite, accompanied by trotting paw-pads. Lunis hopped onto his same cot, curling against the Herald's chest, who appeared soothed by utilising the beast as a large, rumbling pillow.
Dorian again underwent a pang of envy- then annoyance, as he considered how ludicrous it was that he now longed for the placement of a dog.
He imagined Desire echoed the sentiment; his last memory before slumber was of a dark silhouette perched by the Herald's bed, staring intently.